


Raindrops and... Strudel?

by Sophie_skates_reads



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baker Otabek Altin, Ballet Dancer Mila Babicheva, Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, But Bakeries, Complete, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied Mpreg, Like, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Mpreg, Pining, Post Mpreg, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, So Much Cake, close enough, so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28661727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: When Yuri is dragged into a bakery by his best friend after their yoga class, he doesn't expect to like the desserts it makes, and hereallydoesn't expect to humiliate himself in front of the bakery'shot, if inexpressive, proprietor. But as he returns to the bakery, he finds that the proprietor isn't actually made of stone, and, incredibly, seems to like Yuri.But Yuri has a surprise up his sleeve, and, eventually, Otabek will, too. That's what life's all about, though, right? Surprise?When Yuri is dragged into a bakery by his best friend after their yoga class, he doesn't expect to meet the man he'll grow to love, nor does he expect to find his future in the confines of the tiny, homey shop. Maybe, all in all, he should listen to Mila more often.***Complete.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Leo de la Iglesia & Yuri Plisetsky, Mila Babicheva & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 91
Kudos: 98





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Surka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surka/gifts).



> This fic was written for the lovely Surka! You're a wonderful friend, excellent writer, and exemplary human being; I'm so happy to know you! I hope you enjoy this! ♥
> 
> (Thank you so much to the Superfan fam for the endless sprints in which this was written! In like three days! Help! ♥)

It began, as all notable things for Yuri did, with dance. Or, well, it began _after_ dance. Technically yoga. _Whatever,_ same category.

When Mila had suggested that they try out the little cafe/bakery combo thing down the street from their Tuesday/Thursday yoga classes, Yuri had been hesitant, at first. His stomach had been sensitive, lately, and he’d never exactly been big on pastries or sweets in general. He was hungry after class, though, and goddammit he _needed_ a coffee if he was going to finish up the paperwork for the company’s tour, that night. He needed caffeine, Mila wanted a friend to stare at the proprietor of the bakery with, and he was hungry; he saw no issue. 

Except the possible ~~probable~~ one that the second he stepped into the bakery, he’d vomit from the scents doubtlessly shrouding the place-- cloying, sickeningly sweet perfumes of sugar and fat, as they were. But, worst came to worst, he could always wait outside; if he gave in to _every_ mandate his body tried to set for him, he’d never get anything done, and he _certainly_ wouldn’t have survived the class he’d just escaped. Especially, thank god, with all of his limbs intact.

“That woman was _insane,_ baba,” Yuri whined as he trooped dutifully up the high street, trailing several feet behind his friend as they wound through passersby, following the bright, homing beacon that was Mila’s hair. “People don’t _bend_ that way!”

Mila, for her part, seemed completely unperturbed. Bitch. “Ah, yes,” she replied, “because you’re not flexible at all.”

She opened the door to one of the many storefronts, the words _The Otabakery_ emblazoned on the sign above this one (weird name, Yuri couldn’t help but think), and Yuri swatted her shoulder as they stepped inside, his reply of “not in my _hips!”_ dying on his tongue.

Yuri had been right in his expectations; a thick, pervasive scent of baked goods hung over the entire inside of the bakery, forcing its way into his sinuses the moment he stepped through the door. What he hadn’t expected, though, was that it would smell so _good._

He gave Mila a second jab as payback for the smug look on her face as she watched him, but didn’t put too much effort into it, his attention, as it was, almost entirely on the display case of pastries at the register. Yuri _liked_ that.

The effort not to look _too_ much like a kid in a candy shop was intense, but Yuri flattered himself to say that he carried off the facade quite well-- beyond Mila, who knew him far too well after the decade they’d been friends, no one seemed to have picked up on his _astonishing_ eagerness to try _at least seven desserts_ in no less than five minutes. 

Yuri allowed himself to follow Mila at a trot to the front counter, gazing, starry-eyed, at the baked goods practically beckoning to him from behind glass, as she looked up at the menu boards above the counter.

She hummed lightly. “The tiramisu’s good, here,” she suggested, eyeing the small cake silhouette drawn next to its name in chalk. “So are the croissants, though. Should I at least _try_ to pretend I’m keeping my diet, or just fuck it all? What do we think the odds of Lilia finding out are?”

“Greater than or equal to a hundred percent,” Yuri muttered, finding it in himself to tear his eyes from the great many pastries singing their siren’s song, to meet Mila’s crestfallen expression. “Don’t give me that,” he rolled his eyes, “the woman’s like a bloodhound-- I’m just saving you from public humiliation at tomorrow’s rehearsal. Performers’ diets are not to be trifled with.”

He said this all with perfect earnestness, as though he had not broken his meal plan time and time again, second fiddle to and endless enabler of Mila’s sweet tooth. This hypocriticism, apparently, struck Mila, as well, and she levelled Yuri with a piercing glare.

“But,” Yuri continued, serene as you please, “as I am no longer a performer, there is absolutely nothing stopping me from ordering-- the tiramisu, please.” The last part of his statement was directed to the cashier, who nodded. “And a small coffee.” Yuri added, and watched as the man’s head bobbed again; his ponytail bounced.

“Yuri!” Mila’s look of petulance and glowering envy from Yuri’s first order morphed into one of scolding, at his second. “No coffee!”

An eye roll. He had asked the doctor expressly-- this was _fine._ “I can have one small cup a day, thank you very much, baba.”

A second eye roll, this time from the other, and dark mumbling ensued as Mila gave the ponytailed cashier her order, too. As they found their way to a small, sunlit table at the front of the shop, Yuri thought he made out “two heads” and “half a brain.”

He deigned not to react, only pulling out his phone and skimming through notifications. Three text messages from Victor were ignored, as was only proper, an email about the logistics of getting sets halfway around the world was replied to, and screaming fans’ comments on his Instagram were glanced over without much interest. It was always the same story, with them, no matter what _their_ story was. Or seemed to be. It could be hard to tell.

He only looked up from the deeply engrossing matter of trying to decipher one preteen girl’s all-caps comment on a picture he’d posted of his new sunglasses, when a small plate was being placed in front of him, cup and saucer following suit. “Thanks,” he said, glancing up and giving his small, business-polite smile to the waiter. He was a different person than the cashier, would’ve been gorgeous had he shown any sort of expression, at all, but as it was, he only nodded, lips giving a feeble twitch, before returning to the counter. Yuri raised an eyebrow (weren’t servers supposed to be _polite?),_ and then the other when he looked across the table to find Mila, watching the man’s progress with rapt attention.

Yuri snorted lightly. “The proprietor?” He guessed, and a nod was hazarded in his direction. “Hot,” Yuri agreed, tilting his head and pursing his lips as he lifted his coffee. “Though his face is made of stone.”

“Eh, it’s part of the appeal--” Mila nodded, sagely, “once a little girl came in and he gave her this really sweet smile when he handed her her cupcake. It brings his attractiveness up by like ten points.” And promptly ruined her air of wisdom.

Yuri hummed, taking a delicate bite of his cake, and doing his best impression of unaffected as fireworks went off in his brain. _Damn._ Whoever the hell the baker was, Yuri was _definitely_ requesting their number. Were they freelance? Were they gay? Yuri needed to know.

Mila watched his consumption of the cake, bitter, and Yuri changed his tactic, openly savoring the cake as much as was decent while she stabbed and chewed her fruit salad with a venom befitting only a professional athlete. An athlete in the middle of a season, and therefore a diet.

“You’ll be back to this in a few months,” Mila snarled, waving skewered pineapple in Yuri’s face. “Live it up while it lasts-- before you know it you’ll be eating only rabbit food, trying to get your figure back.”

“Oh I plan to-- but don’t worry,” Yuri’s smile pierced, “I’ve got ten months before then. Plenty of time to eat sweets.” Punctuated by a pointed bite.

The chocolate powder from the top of the cake went down his throat, and Yuri couldn’t hold back his cough, spluttering as Mila looked on with a smug, satisfied smile on her face. “Karma.”

Through his wheezing and hurried consumption of the coffee still before him, Yuri flipped her the finger, and the tinkling sounds of her laughter filled the shop.

***

They left a little under an hour later, with, to Mila’s disappointment, no more sightings of the owner under their belts. Mila was determined, though, and so Yuri found himself returning to the small storefront hardly a week later, fresh from class and trying not to look too disheveled with his hair thrown over his shoulder in a haphazard braid, flyaways sticking to his face, and a hoodie thrown carelessly over blue stretch pants. If he was being dragged to classes taught by a sadist with no regard for _body composition,_ then he would go in style, dammit. He’d like to see that fifty-something shrew look as good as he did in form-fitting clothing.

Sadly, though, Mila was not fifty-something, only two years older than him despite the fact that she was a grandmother of epic proportions, and _did_ look good in skin-tight work out garb. Possibly better than he did, given recent developments, which was why the sweater had been donned before Yuri had left the studio. And because it was fucking cold out-- but, really, the vanity wasn’t something to be underestimated.

A cloud of warmth rushed to meet Yuri as the door of the bakery opened, carrying on it tantalizing scents of fruit, chocolate, custard, and at least six different types of pastry. Idly, Yuri thought he might try the coconut roll, today.

Another round of banter and “No coffee!”/“ _Yes_ coffee!” at the counter later, and they were seated at the little table in front of the window, again, late afternoon sunlight flooding in and warming Yuri’s shoulder, just inches from the glass. Mila poked him, and Yuri glanced up in time to see the man who apparently smiled at little girls (and, God, didn’t _that_ sound wrong--) moving toward them, a tray of coffee, pastry, and fruit, in his hands.

“Thanks,” Mila reached out and took the cup as it was placed in front of her, before glancing at Yuri’s. “Oh, sorry,” she pointed at his mug, “my friend’s was supposed to be decaf.”

The man -- Beka, said the name tag -- blinked, before nodding and removing the offending drink. “I’ll be right back with that,” he said, in a low, shockingly velvety voice(did he voice-act? Yuri thought it was _certainly_ something to look into), before turning around and heading back to the counter.

Yuri glared. “It’s _not_ decaf!” He hissed, but Mila merely smirked, eyes on Beka’s ass before it disappeared behind the display case.

“Two birds, one stone.”

Yuri grumbled, but he wasn’t going to call her out on it. Frankly, the view _was_ nice, and he wasn’t going to get the dude to remake his coffee a second time just to spite her.

Not in the mood to either scold or commend her actions, whichever way the dice would fall, Yuri busied himself with trying the coconut roll in front of him. He normally wouldn’t go for the marginally healthier option (fruit versus chocolate, nowadays, anyway, wasn’t a hard choice to make), but he had been feeling nice after Mila had helped him get off the floor after their class, and, since it looked good, had gotten a less decadent dessert than he’d been tempted to, in a gesture of goodwill. He wasn’t sure if he’d regret it or not, but as soon as the first bite hit his tongue, the matter was decided.

“Mmmm,” Yuri couldn’t quite regain enough neurons to stop himself before he let out a little moan at the flavor. The bite seemed to melt in his mouth, unlike so many of the other, tougher pastry rolls he’d had in the past, and was fluffy enough that it felt vaguely like chewing a cloud, not to even _touch on_ the taste--

He was kicked under the table, and met Mila’s eyes across it. She stared at him, glaring daggers with an intensity he’d very rarely borne witness to, the only time he was able to call to memory having happened during the Victor-pining-over-Yuuri stage of _all_ of their lives. And, to cap this already legendary expression off, Mila’s cheeks were pink, more so than could be accounted for by the fading cold or the steaming coffee.

It was like a horror movie, in a way, the type of moment where Chucky, Jason, or Michael Myers is standing just behind the inevitably stupid main character, and if they would just _turn around,_ they would see the knife, or gun, or-- or coffee. 

_Fuck._

Beka, for his apparently natural state of inexpression, looked remarkably awkward. Instantly, Yuri’s cheeks flamed. Carefully, with far more deliberation than could _ever_ be necessary, Beka set the new coffee down on the table. He gave a little cough. “Is the coconut roll good?”

“Yes,” could Yuri drown himself in the coffee? Certainly something to look into. Maybe if he angled his face just right-- “thanks.”

“I’m glad,” it was a valiant attempt at normalcy, almost giving the impression that Yuri hadn’t just made his audition for an erotic film in the middle of his bakery. “The recipe’s new-- would you say it’s good enough to stay on the menu?”

“Uhm,” eloquent, Yuri. Way to convey your innermost thoughts and emotions. “I thought you just owned the place?”

He blinked. “I’m the baker, too. A waiter, occasionally, if we’re short-staffed.”

“Oh.” _Death. By. Coffee._ “Cool.” _Now!_

Fuck, why was Beka raising his eyebrow? Why was _Yuri_ getting kicked under the table? _Oh--_

“It is,” ah, yes, engage the telepathic powers of rambling idiot to communicate what you mean to him. “Good enough, I mean. Definitely good enough for the menu.”

“Excellent,” well, if Yuri didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that Beka sounded amused. Underneath all the monotone, that was. “Thank you for the feedback.”

“No problem.”

After a moment of drawn-out silence in which their breathing was ear-shattering, Beka gestured to the coffee, sitting, likely cold, by now, on the table. “That’s decaf,” he assured him, “I’m sorry for the mix-up. Is there anything else I can do for you, today?”

“Nope,” Mila interjected, having been silent for the entire exchange and only now stepping in to save Yuri from further embarrassment. “Thanks!”

Beka glanced from Yuri to her then back to Yuri. He nodded, and walked away.

Mila, reminding Yuri uncannily of a slow-motion clip of the Exorcist he’d seen on YouTube, turned her head to Yuri. “So, that--”

She was interrupted by the dull, thunking noise Yuri’s head made when he dropped it onto the table.

***

That night they stayed at the bakery longer, the ambiance nice and conducive to conversation (read: less-hostile arguments) about work. They only left when Mila looked up after a long, circular discussion about the newest costumes for the company (Yuri thought that all of the feathers was a disaster waiting to happen in regards to travel-- Mila maintained that they were adults and could be relied upon not to murder their outfits over the course of several flights) and found that it was nearing six o’clock. Their class had ended at three.

Needless to say, they’d been occupying a table for far too long after only having bought the bare minimum for the procurement of said table, and, civilized as they were, hastened to leave upon this realization. Perhaps too much so, because Yuri didn’t even notice when, halfway to the door after paying, his wallet didn’t make the journey back into his bag, instead taking a desperate leap for freedom. He was almost out of the store entirely before a call made him turn back towards the counter, ignoring Mila where she stood, holding the door open for him.

“You dropped this,” Beka stood in the center of the bakery, Yuri’s escaped wallet in his hand, and moved slightly forward.

“I didn’t even notice,” Yuri shook his head, taking the few quick steps to Beka’s side and taking his wallet from his outstretched hand. It had leopard prints on it, and he’d never felt the weight of it in his palm more than now. “Thanks-- it would’ve really sucked to lose that.” Feeble attempt at a laugh: check.

“No problem,” was the reply, accompanied by a little shrug and a slight, almost imperceptible, curving of the lips. “Come again.” 

Yuri blinked at the abrupt transition, but nodded, realizing a moment too late that this was a normal thing for a business owner to say to a customer.

“You too,” Yuri had already half-turned before he said it, and therefore had the blessing of his face being hidden when it bloomed bright red. 

Yuri left the shop maybe slightly too quickly, and Mila’s laughter followed him all the way home.


	2. Chapter 1

For the first time, a week or so later, Yuri didn’t enter _The Otabakery_ after a yoga class, passing under the striped, red, strangely clean and cheerful awning following a trip to the library. He normally went there to work on weekends, not wanting to tarnish his view of his newly-purchased house with negative, frustrating associations, but today the atmosphere had seemed too quiet. Normally, silence worked well to help Yuri focus, but he soon realized that, at least for today, _some_ background noise was a must-- and, as it was lunchtime and he’d been craving something sweet, the softly bustling bakery seemed like the perfect place.

It took Yuri all of thirty seconds to notice that Beka wasn’t there when he arrived. Which wasn’t a surprise, as he was actively _looking_ for him. Well, not looking for _him,_ but looking around to _find_ him in the purpose of checking if avoiding him after their last awkward encounter was at all possible.

And it was, it turned out, for Yuri ordered from the ponytailed guy at the counter, had his food and coffee (decaf, fucking Mila) brought to him by the same, and settled down into a quiet, corner table to begin working. 

For a while, things went quite well, Yuri cozy in the large, billowy jacket he wore and a baggier pair of jeans. They weren’t part of his selection of new clothes, purchased only recently when he could put it off no longer, but an older pair, thoroughly worn in and with a forgiving enough waistband that he could still finagle some use out of them, changed though he was.

As he sat there, nestled into his little table, coat blousing around him, Yuri found, with delight, that the bakery seemed the perfect environment to work. After several hours too long at the library, he had gotten done twice the work he had there, here, in just over half the time. Plus, there was cake readily available for his consumption, here, and the sun warmed his back and shoulder in just the right way as he leaned over his laptop, reading yet another form filled with time-consuming tedium. Was he glad that he had a secure, well-paying job for the company, still? Yes, he was. Ecstatic, even. But did he like that it was _so, mind-numbingly dull?_ Well, that seemed not to need an answer. Or explanation, honestly. Because who the hell would enjoy sifting through piles and piles of bureaucratic shit, day in and day out?

Didn’t matter, though, because Yuri was _finally_ nearing the end of his stack of papers, his allotment of work _this close_ to being complete, for the day. 

And then the worst happened. The absolute, unrivaled worst nightmare of anyone who possessed electronics. 

Someone walked by.

Except they didn’t. They did not merely _walk,_ they _tripped, right next to Yuri’s table._ Carrying three too large drinks.

“Fuck!” The expletive reached Yuri’s ears moments before the coffee reached his laptop.

“No!” The shout was automatic, as was Yuri’s immediate, desperate grab for his computer and then phone, lifting them out of harm’s way and out of reach of the flood of brown liquid currently taking over the tabletop at an alarming speed.

Yuri stood from his chair, moving back and out of the way so as to avoid getting his jeans wetter than they already were, and put his laptop hurriedly down on the next table over -- thankfully unoccupied --, grabbing napkins from the little dispenser there and dabbing them over the keyboard of his computer. It didn’t look too bad, from what he could see, but who knew how much had already soaked in under the keys? 

“Oh no. I’m so sorry,” Yuri spared the person one glance over his shoulder as he continued with his damage control, and found, because _of course,_ this was his life, it to be Beka, looking thoroughly horrified. Fucking _warranted!_ “How bad is it?” He asked, paying absolutely no attention to the mess of coffee and broken mugs still on what had been Yuri’s safe haven for work. The coffee began dripping onto the floor.

Yuri didn’t answer for a moment, still dabbing, but, once he could identify no more outwardly wet patches of keyboard and was only succeeding in getting pieces of napkin stuck to the now-sticky keys, he gave up his efforts, sighing. 

“I don’t know,” Yuri glanced at his phone and found it to be dry; apparently he’d gotten it out of the way in time. “It didn’t look like much got on it, but there might be a lot under the keys that I can’t see.” He huffed, more in frustration than anything else. If he lost all of his work to this, he was going to _die._ And take _Beka_ with him.

No matter how desperately repentant he looked. 

Honestly, it was probably the most emotion Yuri had ever seen on the guy’s face. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, looking helplessly at the screen of Yuri’s laptop. It still showed the document he had been trying to read, but flickered black after a moment, disuse triggering its sleep mode. They both stared at it for a moment. “Is there anything I can do?” Beka asked.

“Pay for its replacement?” Yuri muttered, cutting, before deflating, huffing a breath and running a hand through his hair, left untied and hanging around his shoulders. He recoiled when he realized that his fingers were still covered in dried coffee, sticky, and sighed. “No,” Yuri muttered, “sorry. It’s old, anyway; I needed a new one soon. It’s just that it has all of my work on it.” He gestured to it, defeated, feeling himself on the brink of tears. In his opinion, the reaction was pretty fair, but he also cursed the hormones circulating through his body and actualizing it.

He scrubbed a hand over his face in a vain attempt to disperse the recalcitrant products of emotion, but, going by the way Beka’s eyes widened slightly and he looked even more horrified, Yuri guessed he hadn’t been too successful. 

“Really, it’s fine,” Yuri wasn’t quite sure _why_ he was trying to reassure the dude he’d seen twice and who had just destroyed his laptop, but there he was. Maybe he just wanted to seem marginally saner and distract from his less than adult reaction. Maybe he was being the bigger person after so long stuck in anger-management. Maybe he just didn’t like to see that look on Beka’s face. “You tripped, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Is there anything I can do?” He asked, looking from Yuri’s laptop to its owner, giving a strong appearance of a lost, guilty puppy.

“A lifetime supply of free food?” Yuri joked, though he had to admit it sounded weak-- even to his own ears. 

There was a pause.

“How about a year?” Beka replied, eventually, appearing to have re-emerged from strenuous mental math and regarding Yuri semi-hopefully. “We haven’t been open too long-- I doubt a lifetime guarantee is feasible, from a financial standpoint, but a year--”

“No, no, that was just a joke--” Yuri had grown up poor. Dirt poor. The kind of poor that ensured you always feel guilty when buying name-brand items, dismiss things like a new sweater or pair of shoes as a luxury, and made the concept of ‘treating yourself’ absolutely foreign. That last one was something Yuri was actively combatting in coming to the bakery, but, when it came down to it, he _knew_ intimately, deeply, painfully how tight finances could be. He would never seriously ask for a year’s free consumption of _anything,_ let alone a lifetime’s. “You don’t have to--”

“I insist,” Beka replied, immediately. Surprisingly earnestly. “Besides,” he gave a little shrug, “how else can I maintain your patronage? Offer to ruin another valuable possession for you?”

Reluctantly, Yuri gave a small chuckle.

***

In the end, Beka succeeded in talking Yuri into taking the sticky note upon which he’d scribbled a proclamation for a year’s worth of free products, though Yuri knew he’d never use it. Indeed, the next time he came in (only a week or so later), he conveniently forgot about his ‘gift card’ (really, the sticky note was kind of sad, but he would honor its intention mentally, if not actually) when paying. Fortunately, Beka seemed not to have mentioned to his register worker (and his name tag had some kind of L in it? The rest was obscured by the ponytail perpetually on his shoulder) that Yuri didn’t have to pay for his goods, for his credit card was accepted just as casually as it always was, now accompanied by a friendly smile of recognition each time the transaction occurred. 

Yuri did see Beka on that trip back to the bakery, though, for, emerging from a back room (an office? The kitchen?) about half an hour into Yuri’s pile of physical paperwork, the man made an appearance in the store part of his business. Upon seeing Yuri, he made a beeline for him, any awkwardness long absent in his need to speak to him, apparently.

“How’s the laptop?” Beka asked, no smalltalk, as he reached him, eyeing the stack of papers Yuri found himself wading through dubiously, his brow wrinkled in what Yuri thought was concern.

“It’ll live,” Yuri replied, more at ease, too, in light of the Coffee/Computer Catastrophe™. “I took it to a friend of mine who’s good with technology-- it took replacing a few things and a new battery, but it has made a full recovery,” and, eyeing Beka eyeing his papers and pen, “I’m just using physical copies because I had to sign stuff, and get other people to sign it-- online signatures are not as easy as they’re made out to be.” Yuri chuckled.

Beka echoed it, seemingly relieved. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t inadvertently lose you $500 dollars.”

Yuri quirked an eyebrow.

“For a new laptop, I mean.” Beka elaborated.

“Oh, yeah.” Yuri returned Beka’s small smile.

***

From then on, their interactions were easy. As easy as was reasonable, anyway. No, Yuri was not telling this man he’d known for just over a month all of his deepest, darkest secrets. But, yes, he was making fluid conversation with him, exchanging a few comments (great cake!) or complaints (WHY does this need to be checked by six different people?! Why am I one of them?!) with him whenever he passed his table, and occasionally came to sit with him when Yuri dropped his head onto the top of it and groaned, which, to Beka, said that he needed a break. And, apparently, Beka’s real breaks fell at the same time as Yuri’s fake ones, though he highly doubted that they were always limited to fifteen minutes long. 

Another wonderful thing about the bakery, Yuri discovered, not too long after these impromptu breaks started: at his little corner table, no one gave a shit about what he looked like. On the few occasions Yuri had gone into work, he’d made an effort to dress up and look relatively professional; whenever he was called to sit in on practices, he went to great lengths to look put together in front of the company and, *quiver*, _Lilia;_ even when he ran errands, he put on at least a touch of makeup so as not to look completely zombified; but at the bakery? No one gave a shit. Smushed into the corner table he often occupied, hidden behind his laptop and in baggy, oversized sweaters (some of them were not hoodies and instead were of socially acceptable designs, just huge; he was not a _complete_ heathen), no one could _see_ him, to begin with.

It was nice, the sense of anonymity he rarely got to experience, anymore, the knowledge that no one was watching him to see what he was wearing, eating, and doing. Which was not to say that he hadn’t gotten caught on the street by crazy fans with cell phone cameras several times, that was just part of life for him, but that the bakery, a hole-in-the-wall place despite doing good business, was an easy place to disappear. And Beka, who very obviously knew nothing about ballet, was easy to disappear _with._

Except when he caught Yuri paying for his food at the end of one of his days, there, and became Very Indignant.

“No!” 

Yuri, halfway out of the shop, looked back to find Beka standing behind the counter, obviously just having emerged from his office (Yuri _was_ fairly sure that it was an office, now), a receipt clutched in his hand. Leo, for his part (Yuri had _finally_ learned the cashier’s name!), looked thoroughly confused, and on the brink of questioning. 

“You paid!” Beka cried.

Yuri, who had been inching backward towards the door the entire time, simply shot him a smile, gave a small wave, and disappeared into the highstreet. Beka’s overdramatic wail, called after his retreating back, made him smile.

***  
In hindsight, Yuri probably should’ve realized that he wouldn’t just get away with that. When he returned to the bakery a few days later, it took him until he began to fish through his bag for his wallet to realize that Leo was shaking his head.

“What?” Yuri asked.

“You’re not allowed to pay,” he replied instantly, his lips curling around the words. The smug fucking bastard.

Yuri rolled his eyes, about to protest, when Beka appeared behind the counter. The ears of a… hawk(?), that one. “Oh, come on, just let me pay!” But Yuri’s coercion was ill-received.

“Nope.” Beka gave him a wry, amused smile that Yuri Did Not Appreciate. “Are you trying the apple twist? It’s a new addition-- you’ll have to give me your thoughts on it.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Yuri glared, “and it’s working because I’m hungry, but dammit, Altin, I am going to pay.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” but he was already guiding Yuri to his usual table, his slice of the mentioned dessert in hand, thoroughly too comfortable in his belief that Yuri wouldn’t be fairly purchasing the food.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch me eat?” Yuri raised an eyebrow as Beka took the chair opposite his, gazing at him intently.

“Well, I have to see your genuine reaction-- it’s always better than your words.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them to further the effect. Ass.

“Ha-ha, you’re very funny,” Yuri replied, stabbing his fork into the twist with more intent than was probably necessary, but felt good, nonetheless.

“Thank you, I like to think so.” Beka didn’t miss a beat.

Thoroughly fed up with this man, Yuri didn’t respond, only putting the fork in his mouth and swallowing before he had really had a chance to taste the apple and flaky pastry riding on it.

Almost instantaneously, he realized his mistake. His stomach had calmed, in recent weeks, but most food was still tricky, though Yuri had, in his path eating his way through the menu, never encountered something from the bakery that made him ill. Evidently, that luck had run out.

Otabek’s eyebrows creased as Yuri’s eyes widened slightly, feeling the bile rise in his throat, and looked both shocked and horrified as Yuri stood abruptly, almost running over to the little bathroom on the other side of the room. 

Yuri, hand pressed over his mouth, wasted no time in such trivial matters as locking the door when he reached the safe haven of the singular, unisex lavatory. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet bowl, his thick, knitted cardigan bunching, and let his head dip beneath the rim as he retched. Tears came to his eyes as the stomach acid burned his sinuses, feeling helpless as his stomach convulsed and his diaphragm forced what had been his breakfast and recently-consumed lunch from his body.

It didn’t continue for too long, unlike the results of many of his other run-ins with Problem Foods had done, but by the time Yuri had slumped over the toilet, grasping for the toilet paper he knew to be beside it, he was exhausted, enough so that his disgust and revulsion at puking in a bathroom that was used by the general public had yet to set in. 

The toilet paper he was searching for was pushed into his hand, and, after a second, so was a water bottle. “That bad, huh?” Beka asked, weakly, “No one else had such a strong reaction…”

“No,” Yuri shook his head, his voice as firm as he could make it following his stomach’s recent rebellion, “the food was fine-- I think I’ve just finally found the one dish served here that I can’t eat,” he gave a hollow laugh, “shame, it was such a good run.”

“What?” When Yuri looked up at him, Beka’s face was extremely confused, concern not hidden in his expression.

Yuri shrugged tiredly, “I’m pregnant-- some foods just randomly make me sick,” then, “what?” Beka’s expression had changed. Significantly. But he got it back under control so quickly, and Yuri wasn’t an expert at reading his face, yet, so he couldn’t say _what_ the emotion that had temporarily made a home in his features was. 

“Nothing,” Otabek replied, belatedly. “Just glad I didn’t poison you.” 

Yuri gave a weak chuckle, and accepted Otabek’s hand to get up. He didn’t miss the way Otabek’s eyes lingered on his abdomen, where his sweater had ridden up and, just for a moment, a glimpse of his rounded belly had been visible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Beka. :(
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you feel so inclined, kudos and _especially_ comments are wonderful to receive and feed my little writer's soul! ♥


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, my dear Surka! I hope this day is even half as lovely as you! ♥

Sometimes, when they took breaks together, if they were especially busy, Beka brought out some of his own bakery business paperwork while Yuri worked on his for the company. On one such occasion, Yuri had a revelation. A _big_ revelation.

It’s brought about by nothing particularly special. Yuri was typing away on his laptop, placed on the side of the table farthest from where their drinks sat; Beka was reading and signing some physical papers about something or other for _The Otabakery;_ all was well. It was peaceful, as their time together so often was. Then, Beka sighed. 

“What is it?” Yuri looked up, and raised his eyebrows as Otabek let his head rest on the tabletop, not as dramatically as Yuri occasionally did, the descent slowed in anticipation of the pain of the impact (wimp), but in an emphatic gesture out of character for Beka to perform. Yuri wasn’t sure whether to be inquisitive about what had caused Beka to do such a thing, or concerned that his friend had malfunctioned.

“Nothing,” Beka sighed as he sat back up, running a weary hand over his face. “I just realized that I screwed up the profit margin spreadsheets for this month. It’ll take forever to fix.”

Yuri hummed sympathetically, “Did you already send them out?”

A nod. 

Yuri winced.

Beka flopped back onto the table.

Yuri laughed, leaning over their work to push at his shoulder until he reemerged, and then laughed again at the look of mild irritation on his face.

“I was _trying_ to die,” he said, flatly, “rude of you to interrupt me. Can’t a man die a peaceful death without being summoned from beyond the grave?”

“Not in this country,” Yuri chirped, and Beka joined in his laughter, shaking his head in some, muddled version of agreement.

“What did you do?” Yuri asked, after a moment, pulling the printed spreadsheets towards him, across the table. “Maybe it won’t be a big fix--” He stopped, having found the mistake. It was right there, in the top line, something so glaringly obvious that Yuri both wasn’t sure how Beka could’ve _possibly_ missed it, and yet knew _exactly_ how it had happened.

“Oh, Beka,” Yuri said, looking at him with sad eyes. “You misspelled your own name.”

He blinked. Eyebrows furrowed. The papers were pulled back across the table to be reexamined. “Um, no?” He asked, very much confused. “My name’s fine.”

“No it’s not,” Yuri replied, pointing, upside down, at the offending word. “You wrote ‘Otabek,’ like, ‘Otabakery.’”

“And that’s wrong because…?”

“Because your name is Beka?”

“My name is Otabek. Beka is a nickname,” a pause, “you didn’t know that?”

“How was I supposed to?” Yuri asked, flabbergasted, “Your name tag says _Beka,_ and it’s not like people call you anything else?”

_Otabek_ shrugged, “I just figured you knew. It never even occurred to me that you might not have heard it. Leo calls me that all the time.”

Yuri stared blankly at him, before crossing his arms and reclining in his chair with a huff.

“What?” Otabek asked, sounding vaguely amused.

“Nothing,” Yuri replied, “I just thought that, after we’ve been friends for a month, I’d be important enough to know your _real_ name.” He sniffed, offended, and Otabek laughed. By God, did Yuri love that sound.

“My apologies, Yuri. However can I repair this horrible slight?”

Yuri, nose still in the air, glanced haughty at him, “You can’t,” he said, “it’s too grievous an error to come back from; our friendship is over.”

“Damn,” Otabek replied, going as far as to snap his fingers and swing his arm. “Ah, well, we had a good run.”

Yuri deigned not to respond, insulted as he was, but instead took a bite of the dessert that sat in front of him, as one always did when he was at the bakery. Slowly, though, something dawned on him. “Beka,” he asked, looking inquiringly at his ~~ex~~ friend. “If your name is Otabek, how the hell did you name this place _The Otabakery?”_

Otabek looked up, very slowly, from the spreadsheets he’d returned to. “Certainly not,” he said, “because I wrote my name wrong when I went to the sign place.”

Yuri blinked.

Otabek blinked.

Yuri burst out laughing.

Otabek watched with a fond smile, and a sparkle in his eye.

***

It was strange, coming into the bakery with Mila, again. It wasn’t like they’d stopped going together after the classes, but over the last few weeks Mila had had to go home directly after class (she’d pretty much given up on Beka, at this point-- instead dating another dancer from the company and dropping several pointed remarks about Beka liking someone else which Yuri _still_ couldn’t figure out) and Yuri had been coming in on his own, too, making entering the small, cozy store a weird, deja vu-like experience for him.

He’d also seen a lot of Beka on his trips to his shop, and their friendship had grown significantly since Mila had last been present for their barely-there contact. This, apparently, was something Mila enjoyed teasing Yuri about. As he realized, a fraction of a second too late to stop the train of what was going to happen from crashing, that day.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Mila groaned from where she’d slumped down at the table by the window, not the corner. “Lilia is apparently a woman scorned or _something,_ because the way she ran us today can only be attributed to sadism or failure in her love life.”

“And you’re counting sadism out because…?” Yuri asked, taking a sip of his coffee idly.

“It’s a way for me to pay her back for the damage she’s inflicted on my feet,” Mila said darkly. Then, spotting something over Yuri’s shoulder, grinned as her eyes widened. “Plus, love life is _more fun!”_

A chill shot Yuri’s spine. 

Oh no. 

That tone _never_ boded well.

“Beka?” Mila called out, waving at someone behind Yuri, “what’s up?”

Yuri turned, and, to his horror and sympathy for Otabek, found him frozen a few meters away from where Yuri sat, a salad and reusable water bottle in his hand. It was evident that he’d seen Yuri come in and had started to take his 15 (more like 30, let’s be honest) before he’d notice Mila, and, backing away, had been caught before he’d been able to make his escape.

“Sorry,” he said, far more stiffly than he normally was-- with Yuri, at least. “I was just going to talk to Yuri, but you’re busy. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“No, please!” Mila said, making a big, sweeping gesture toward the third, empty chair at their table, a dangerous sparkle in her eye. Yuri knew, from far too much experience, to fear that sparkle. And yet, he couldn’t communicate that to Otabek who, after glancing uncertainly between Mila and Yuri, sat down in the proffered chair. If Yuri had the power to beam either apologetic messages or fervent profanities to another human being, he’d be using it, right about now.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Otabek said, waving his hand in the air to indicate picking back up where they left off. “Keep going.”

“Okay,” Mila replied, “I was just complaining about my drill sergeant of a director-- she tried to kill me today, I swear.”

“Which led to her theorizing that a failed love had prompted Lilia to take it out on her and the rest of the company.” Yuri finished for her, waving his hand vaguely.

He might not have wanted to have this conversation, but he wasn’t going to make Otabek feel left out, goddammit.

Otabek hummed. “You’re a dancer?” He asked Mila.

“I am!” She brightened. “Yuri, too, before he proved himself irresistible,” she reached out to ruffle his hair which he dodged deftly, “and the prince implanted his seed in him--”

“Ew, baba, what the fuck--”

“And promptly fucked off, leaving the Blond, Very-Awake Beauty to himself.”

“Was there possibly a creepier way to have explained that?” Yuri huffed, his cheeks inexplicably burning. He took another bite of his latest dessert, and let his hair fall to cover his face on Otabek’s side. He swallowed before he continued, “You’re alluding to something and I don’t appreciate it… whatever it is.”

“Sleeping Beauty-- the original story, not the Disney film.” Otabek spoke up. 

“That’s right!” Mila beamed, before turning to antagonize Yuri, once again. “See? He’s cool.”

“Thank you for that assessment,” Yuri deadpanned, and Mila sniggered, taking a dainty bite of her fruit, the action so at odds with the sound that had just come out of her mouth.

Otabek, for his part, glanced between them, evidently decided not to engage, and took a bite of his salad.

***

Yuri wouldn’t have guessed it, but, strangely and a little alarmingly for him, that day and that Sleeping Beauty connection were the start of a beautiful friendship. Or, at least, beautiful for Mila and Otabek. For Yuri? Frankly, it was the worst-case scenario. And then some.

“Yura!” Mila squawked one day as they watched Otabek pull out the chair that had become _his_ at the table of three they only ever occupied after yoga class, when Mila was there. 

Yuri glanced up from his slice of strawberry shortcake, eyebrows raised. 

“Must you always get dessert?” She asked, “Why don’t you try something less… unhealthy, for a change?” She, demonstratively, held out her spoonful of the same fruit salad she’d been getting for over two months. 

Yuri wrinkled his nose. “Ew, no, baba. You’re just bitter that you have to eat that crap and I don’t.”

“Hey!” Otabek interjected, but it lacked fire.

Yuri waved him away. “You know what I mean.” Otabek, shrugging, nodded, and returned to his late lunch/early dinner thingy (it was four pm; Yuri was afraid that, if he asked what the meal was, he would be told that it actually _was_ dinner, and that he would have befriended a senior citizen), stabbing his fork into what looked like a piece of kale.

“Otabek, back me up here,” Mila said, nudging his arm as if to forcibly insert him into the conversation. “You’re healthy; never once have I seen you eating something that had nothing green in it--

“Jolly ranchers don’t count--” Yuri protested. He was ignored.

“Talk some sense into him,” Mila made big, imploring eyes at him--

“I’d prefer to stay out of it, thanks.” Which had no effect whatsoever. Yuri cackled with glee, and, just to be a shit, took a large bite of strawberries and whipped cream.

Mila let out a sigh of exasperation. “See?” She pointed wildly from the cake to Yuri, exuberance radiating from her like toxic gas. “This is what I’m talking about! What would Lilia say?”

“She’d probably ban me from stepping foot in her studio until I go vegan,” Yuri replied, immediately, and earned a low chuckle from Otabek.

“She may have a point there,” Mila replied, before, at Yuri’s scandalized look, “no, sorry, that was too low a blow.” Yuri’s _‘thank you’_ was cut off by her continued, “But still, Yuri, I think you should stop with the cake.”

“You make it! Help me!” Yuri demanded, exasperated, of Otabek. He smiled, wryly.

“I do make them,” he agreed, “so I know exactly how much fat and sugar goes in there.” Mila nodded fervently, in a preachy way that pissed Yuri off. 

Yuri frowned, lowering his gaze and shrugging harshly. “Well, I’m already fat, so who cares?”

Instantly, the mood changed. Yuri could practically feel the look shot between Otabek and Mila over his bent head, his eyes on his swollen stomach.

It was true, lately he’d been feeling especially big. When he’d first started coming to the bakery over two months ago, he had been able to hide his abdomen easily in baggy clothes, and, until recently, the same had remained true. Halfway through his seventh month, though, Yuri looked undeniably as though he’d swallowed a watermelon, and couldn’t say he was enjoying the effects his newfound roundness had on his gait (the fucking _waddle--),_ his feet (constantly sore), and his balance (he didn’t want to dwell on that one; there was nothing so humbling as going from a prima ballerina to a waddling penguin who couldn’t see his feet).

Even now, one arm rested over his abdomen, bloated and clearly visible even with his chunkiest sweater on; Yuri moved to stroke it gently, and received a smattering of light kicks against his palm in return.

“Yuri--” Otabek began,

“You’re not fat,” Mila continued, but Yuri waved them away.

“Can we not talk about it?” 

“Sure,” Mila said immediately, “I have leads on the Lilia love thing! Have you seen the chemistry between her and that one administrator, Yakov? I just _know--”_

“Wait,” Otabek cut her off, studying Yuri’s face. He arranged it into a suitably sullen expression. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Delicately, Yuri took another bite of cake.

***

Being friends with the owner of the bakery he spent so much time at (Mila was beginning to make insinuations; Yuri didn’t like to think about their validity) had perks, Yuri was beginning to discover.  
For one matter, he got company while in said bakery, as Otabek had taken to simply bringing his office work with him and sitting next to Yuri to do it. Another was that he had privileges that other customers did not, such as being able to occupy a table for longer than the policy dictated, even if he continued to buy things throughout his stay. But, as Yuri became aware, the ultimate advantage revealed itself in Otabek’s attentive memory.

Ever since the episode in which Yuri had taken a bite of an apple twist and promptly puked in the bathroom, informing Otabek that he was pregnant, along the way, every time Yuri had expressed distaste for something bakery-made, Otabek had proven able to hold that in his mind without having been asked, steering clear of that thing whenever with Yuri. This, apparently, even extended to strategically seating people who had ordered pastries that had made Yuri ill away from his little table in the corner. 

This was becoming especially handy, for, as Yuri found with none too hidden dismay, during the third trimester, the pesky nausea that had plagued him from the first came _back._ Funnily enough, when Yuri came in one day, fresh from too long hunched over the toilet, at home, Otabek noticed this new development immediately.

“Hey,” Yuri muttered as he sat down with his tea, across the corner table from Otabek and feeling every bit the zombie he probably looked.

“Hey,” Otabek replied, watching as Yuri tried to fold one leg over the other, failed, and sighed, weary, taking a sip from his tea. “Feeling okay?”

“It’s that obvious?” Yuri asked, raising one eyebrow and huffing slightly when Otabek simply nodded. “Apparently we’ve developed a distaste for pears,” Yuri explained, rubbing one hand over his abdomen, “and I wasn’t informed until this morning.”

Otabek grimaced sympathetically and Yuri tilted his head in thanks.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Yuri continued, “if I didn’t keep missing the memos. I’m _fine_ around things, and then, suddenly, I’m just _not.”_

“Must suck,” Otabek replied, nodding, “especially because I just got a new recipe for apple fritters, which you can’t try.” Yuri glared at him as he smirked, eyeing the slice of cake in front of Yuri. “It must get so boring eating the same things over and over again.”

“Mock if you want, but I’m taking what I can get.” Yuri raised his nose into the air, regal, “and I’ll also be right back.” And he stood, walking in the direction of the bathroom and dodging a woman sitting down at the next table, as he went.

When he returned, several minutes later, he rejoined Otabek, making some silly comment about how he must have missed him, since he hadn’t gotten any of his paperwork done, while he’d been gone. 

Otabek shrugged, saying something about stepping in as a waiter. Yuri nodded, and noticed not too long after that the woman who had sat down next to their table had been relocated to the other side of the shop, and, as he stared over at her, that she had something that looked suspiciously like an apple fritter on the table next to her. 

Yuri turned his questioning look on Otabek. Had he…?

“What?” Otabek asked, glancing up.

“Nothing,” Yuri muttered after a moment, shaking his head. Still, though, he couldn’t shake that inexplicable feeling of pleasure in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! ♥


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this is being published so late at night (11:24 pm EST as I write this)! I was extremely busy today and only got home a few minutes ago, so, needless to say, this chapter _has not_ been proofed or revised. Attack me with typos (kindly please) and I offer my apologies; I figured it was better to let there be a few errors in here than to publish it tomorrow, so I can only shrug. 
> 
> Enjoy this final installment!

“I’m so. Fucking. Huge. Oh my god.” Yuri lowered himself into his chair, Otabek tracking his movements attentively from where he stood on the other side of the table.

Yuri raised an eyebrow at him from where he was working on situating himself comfortably in the corner that had never felt quite so _small,_ before. Didn’t mean he was willing to move. “Why are you just standing there? Sit down, weirdo.”

Otabek just shrugged, taking his seat after waiting another second longer. “Sorry,” he said, “it just didn’t feel polite to sit while you were so obviously struggling.”

Yuri gaped, scandalized. “You ass,” he chucked a neatly folded napkin at him, it proving inept at aerodynamics and fluttering lamely to rest atop the menus in the center of the table. “Fuck off.”

Otabek simply laughed, shrugging slightly as Yuri glared, betrayed on a number of levels, at his failed projectile. In a moment, though, they were both distracted, as Yuri’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Oh my god,” he said, almost flatly.

“What?” Was Otabek’s natural response.

“Oh my god,” Yuri said again, before pointing to his stomach, where it rested heavily between his thighs. “It’s official, I’ve become too big for civilized society.”

“What?” Otabek repeated, in some weird version of Marco Polo that the two seemed to be verbally playing, what with their penchants for the repetition of their own words.

“Look,” Yuri said, gesturing again to his abdomen, and letting out a gust of air. “It doesn’t fit under the table.”

Otabek leaned to the side, coming out of his chair partially to stare, eyes wide, at the place where Yuri’s abdomen was on level with the edge of the table, refusing to submit and rest under it. Resultantly, Yuri sat a bit away from the tabletop, leaning back now he realized that he wasn’t going to be getting any closer, and pulling the ends of his high ponytail from where they were caught between his back and the chair.

“Huh,” Otabek remarked, obviously caught somewhere between amusement and consternation, “that’s certainly new.”

“It certainly is,” Yuri muttered, resentful even as he smoothed the fabric of his turtleneck over his abdomen. At the ribs, the shirt bloused, and the effect, when standing, was nice, but when sitting, was a bit of a nuisance. “You want to know how you could make it better?” Yuri arranged his face into one he deemed to be sympathy-inducing.

Otabek snorted. “How?”

“Get me some tea?” Yuri asked sweetly, his best impression of innocent hope wasted as Otabek rolled his eyes, seeing completely through Yuri’s facade. “I forgot when I ordered.”

“Fine,” Otabek conceded, standing again, “that weird cranberry one?”

“Yah,” Yuri grinned after him, “thanks!”

A hand was raised over Otabek’s shoulder in reply, and Yuri huffed a laugh as he rubbed his abdomen. A kick met his touch, and his wry smile softened.

“When are you due?” 

Yuri looked up; an older woman sitting a table or so away was watching him, smiling slightly. “The tenth,” Yuri replied. 

“That’s soon!” She exclaimed, and Yuri smiled, raising his eyebrows slightly,

“Not soon enough,” he muttered darkly, and she laughed.

“You two must be so excited!” She continued, though Yuri frowned, his eyebrows furrowing,

“Sorry?”

“You and your husband,” she elaborated, “or boyfriend, I wouldn’t know. You make such a nice couple, anyway.”

“Oh,” Yuri began, “we’re not actually-- we’re just friends.”

“Oh!” The woman’s eyebrows rose in obvious surprise, looking past the counter to Otabek, pouring the contents of one of the several kettles they used into a mug. “I’m sorry. You just seemed so…” 

“It’s fine,” Yuri smiled tightly, looking away just as Otabek returned, passing the mug over to him. “Thanks,” Yuri took a sip, though he couldn’t quite hear Otabek’s response over the cogs squealing in his head.

***

The baby came early. Yuri found himself, a good two weeks before his due date, sitting in a hospital bed with a squalling infant in his arms. Everything seemed to blur together, everything he’d felt getting to that moment cancelled out with his daughter in his arms, tiny and wailing and pink. She was absolutely perfect.

She was also, as he very quickly found, an absolute demon. She screamed to be fed _every two hours,_ and would be held by no one but him, not even the nurses at the hospital or Mila when she checked periodically in on him at home, making sure they were both still alive. Yuri found that he was so busy with his baby, though, that when Mila let herself in one day in a flurry of scarves and fiery hair, that he was shocked to be informed that it had been over two weeks since he’d left the house, almost three since his child had entered the world.

In all, Yuri probably shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was that, with that scale of reclusion, Mila was dragging him out of the house as soon as he deemed himself ready to go (which included everything from baby sunscreen to four extra blankets stuffed into the diaper bag), claiming emphatically that he would not become a hermit on her watch.

He shouldn’t have been remotely surprised, either, that when Mila turned onto the highstreet, she led him under that familiar red awning into _The Otabakery_ from which he’d been absent since the day before he’d given birth. The moment he stepped inside, negotiating the carrier in which his daughter resided and the diaper bag on his shoulder through the door with far more care than ever could’ve been necessary but still didn’t feel like _enough,_ he met eyes with Otabek. He was stationed behind the counter, making someone’s coffee in the way Yuri had only ever seen twice, given that Otabek spent his days either hiding in his office or hiding in the kitchen, very rarely working in the front where _people_ could talk to him.

Otabek glanced up at the bell sounding from above the door, and his eyes widened slightly when he saw Mila holding it open for Yuri, growing even rounder when he saw Yuri, before travelling down to the carrier in his hand.

He met them at the table, moving almost in tandem across the shop to the seats right in front of the window that they always occupied when Mila was around. 

“Hi,” he said, as Yuri slipped the diaper bag off his shoulder and slung it over the back of his chair, carefully setting the carrier on the ground.

“Hey,” Yuri replied, looking up to send his friend a weary smile. 

“You had her?” Otabek asked, as if the reduction of weight from Yuri’s frame and the carrier’s presence could mean anything else.

“Yeah,” Yuri replied, doing nothing to stop the heart eyes he knew he made when he looked at his daughter, even as he grimaced when he sank gingerly down onto the padded chair. Seeing the question in Otabek’s eyes, he said, “Her name’s Irina.”

“She’s beautiful,” Otabek murmured as he crouched beside Yuri’s chair, looking at the sleepy baby nestled between the padded walls of her car seat.

“I know,” was all Yuri really managed. He wasn’t going to lie; he knew how perfect she was. He watched, enraptured, as Irina’s little nose scrunched, in exactly the way his own did, as she yawned, blinking like a tiny, grumpy owl up at them, despite the fact that she couldn’t see their faces. Yuri was so possessed by the sight of his baby (and, honestly, who could blame him?), in fact, that he didn’t realize how long he’d been staring at her until Mila coughed pointedly from across the table.

“If you two will stop goggling at that poor kid we might be able to, oh, I don’t know, sit down like civilized human beings?”

Yuri shot her a scathing glare, purely out of custom, and muttered “I am sitting,” as Otabek reluctantly stood from his crouch and took the chair beside his, overly careful in the same way Yuri was to ensure that he didn’t accidentally hit Irina’s carrier in pulling out his chair.

“How old is she?” Otabek asked, turning the hardly-started conversation onto Yuri.

“Almost three weeks,” Yuri replied, twisting the carrier so it faced inwards toward his feet, away from any of the hazards the rest of the shop laid claim to. “Born on the 27th.”

Otabek nodded and Yuri caught Mila’s glance between them, thoroughly taken aback when he noted the fox-like smirk on her face. “He’s been so busy with the baby,” Mila said, “I don’t think he’s left the house since they let him out of the hospital.”

Otabek snorted and Yuri glared, “I had groceries! Why would I?”

“To feel the sun on your face? Breathe in the fresh air? See human beings?”

“Unnecessary,” Yuri sniffed,

“Fine, then,” Mila shrugged, “to avoid reenacting The Young Man’s Guide to Agoraphobia?”

“Fu-- go away, baba, I’m not agoraphobic, I just didn’t need to go out.”

“I had to drag him here,” Mila added, helpfully, and Yuri rolled his eyes, huffing. His attitude drained, though, when he saw minute lines of tension threading themselves through Otabek’s frame at Mila’s comment. His eyebrows furrowed.

“You didn’t, hag,” Yuri replied, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than he normally would, “I just took forever getting Irishka’s stuff together--” he glanced at Otabek, “there’s no way in he--ck we’re leaving the house without all of the necessities.”

“And _four_ blankets are necessary because--”

“Because they are, and I’m a new parent, so I’m allowed to be paranoid and insane. But I’m not, because _four blankets are necessary!”_

Otabek huffed a laugh, and glanced up as the cashier, Leo, appeared at his side. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered, before turning to him.

“I’m having some trouble opening the safe in the back,” Leo explained at Otabek’s enquiring look, “I need to check the order forms and the code isn’t working, but I might just be turning the padlock thing wrong. If you go check it, I’ll take their orders?” He held up his notepad demonstratively.

Otabek nodded, rolling his eyes as he stood, “I’ve showed you how to open the lock at least three times before--”

“So here’s to four.” Leo replied, making shooing motions with the notepad and not stopping until Otabek had reached the counter.

“I’ll take a raspberry tart and a latte,” Mila said, and, at Yuri’s stern lock, “it’s the off-season, baby, suck it.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, ordering a strawberry mousse thing and a tea, afraid to over-caffeinate his daughter now that she had entered the world and could therefore be _hyper._

Leo, likely following his train of thought, glanced at the carrier next to their feet. “Cute baby,” he said, and Yuri nodded,

“Thanks.”

“Is she why you’ve been gone for three weeks?” Leo continued. Yuri blinked. “Because, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but you used to come in here like every other day. When you disappeared for three weeks, no word, no warning, no _smoke signal,_ Otabek was getting worried,” Yuri opened his mouth to respond, frowning, but Leo cut him off, “like, hovering around the counter worried, waiting tables worried, and you and I both know how much Beks _hates_ customer service. But he was there, out front, every day, waiting for _you._ It was seriously pathetic, man.”

“I didn’t realize--” Yuri started,

“Look, I’m not mad; neither is Beks-- he’s nicer than that,” Leo said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, “but next time, could you bother to text him or something? He really likes you, and it was an asshole move just to disappear like that.”

Yuri nodded, feeling shell-shocked. “I will; I don’t have his number, but I will.”

“How do you not-- you know what? Nevermind,” Leo rolled his eyes. “I’ll be right back with your orders.”

Yuri watched him go, mouth slightly agape and eyes round. He was brought back to earth when Mila spoke, nodding. “He’s right, you know.”

“I--” But then Otabek was sitting down, again, smiling in that quiet, barely-there way of his, and remarking that Leo _really_ needed to learn to open the safe, since they hadn’t even needed to deal with the order forms, today, and he’d just gone back there for nothing.

Yuri just swallowed. Nodded. Noticed, for once, the way Otabek’s eyes lingered on him, the strange lightness within them, throughout the rest of their stay at the bakery.

***

At the end of that day, Yuri made a point of exchanging numbers with Otabek. He looked a little confused, but pleased, readily accepting Yuri’s excuse that it was to coordinate times to view a potential movie they’d discussed earlier. Yuri also made a point to, from then on, stop in at the bakery at least once a week, whenever his schedule (and his incredibly pissy baby) would allow it.

On one such occasion, around three weeks later, Yuri arrived at _The Otabakery_ in high spirits, Irina safely hidden within the shaded compartment of her new running stroller, though Yuri was under strict orders _not to use it,_ yet. 

“Hey,” Yuri waved at Leo as he stepped into the bakery, carefully navigating the stroller through the door and over to the table in the corner. Though the thing was light and compact, designed for agile mobility, it was also a pain to deal with in enclosed spaces, though it wasn’t like Yuri could leave it or its occupant outside.

“What do you want?” Leo asked, taking pity on the struggling Yuri and leaving the counter, manned as it was by a new guy with light brown hair and a nice smile, to meet Yuri where he parallel parked the damned hunk of portable plastic next to his chair. “The croissant, like last time? We have new jam in.”

“Nah, I think I’ll try the strudel,” Yuri pointed to the menu board above the display case at the front, the words _‘Special: Strawberry peach strudel’_ inscribed upon it, a small drawing of a pastry adjacent in pink. “I’m enjoying my ability to eat what I want to, again. I _really_ missed berries.”

Leo huffed a laugh, nodding as he scribbled down Yuri’s order, “Yeah, Irina’s certainly a little hell-raiser. You want tea with that?”

“Please-- and you have _no idea._ When she wakes you up for the _third time_ at 4 am, you’re da--darn sure she’s _something hellish,_ all right.”

Another laugh, a tipped pen, and Leo had whisked himself away to the counter, once more. Yuri noted, with some amusement, that the man blushed crimson when the other guy bumped into him as he passed-- Yuri would have to remember to tease him for that.

Some time later, halfway through the strudel and woefully finished with his cup of tea (it just wasn’t _enough--),_ Yuri remained alone at the table, or as alone as he could be with a small baby drooling happily on his shoulder, milk drunk with a finished bottle sitting on the cafe table next to the drained dry teacup.

“Hey,” Yuri called -- _softly,_ dammit -- to the new waiter dude as he passed with a stack of plates. “Is Otabek in, today?” Normally, by some, strange sixth sense, he always seemed to know when Yuri arrived, coming out to sit with him not long after. 

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” the guy looked rather confused, but seemed aware enough about the blond perpetually occupying the corner table not to remark on the comment. “He’s in the office, occupied with about ten thousand emails to respond to.”

Yuri exhaled amusedly, mentally awarding this new guy (Guang Hong, the name tag said?) points for keeping his voice down next to Irina. “Sounds like him, he always leaves them until the last minute.” They shared a conspiratorial eye roll about the man’s absolute hatred of anything _remotely_ social, before Guang Hong got back to work, Yuri carefully removing Irina from his shoulder and setting her, as though he were diffusing a bomb, back into the stroller.

Which was beyond pointless, because the second Yuri let her go, breathing a mental sigh of relief and patting himself on the back for a job well done, there was a clap of thunder from above, directly overhead by the sound of it and all but shaking the building. With a squalling cry, Irina woke, startled by the loud noise and frustrated at having her sleep disturbed.

“Shhh,” Yuri took her into his arms immediately as round green eyes went teary, hushing and bouncing her gently as her bleating grew louder. “It’s okay,” he murmured, trying to ignore the way his heart rate spiked in time with her whimpers. 

Just _hearing_ her cry made _him_ want to cry-- maybe he could pass it off as the hormones, but he had a feeling that that was just what parenthood was.

“It’s okay, baby,” Yuri murmured into her ear, words muffled against the hat she wore to protect the wisps of blonde hair beneath. “Don’t worry, Irishka, it’s alright.” He smoothed his hand down the back of her swaddle, feeling yet again the measure of how _tiny_ she was, his (relatively small) hand spanning the width of her entire back. 

After several moments, she settled again, blinking agitatedly against his chest, small hands curled into fists as one poked free of her swaddle. Yuri cooed softly in her ear, feeling the anxiety in his chest begin to quell as only a sleepy little gurgle reached his ears, signaling that Irina was susceptible to the white noise of the cafe and the rain outside, and Yuri’s ministrations in getting her back to sleep

Logically, Yuri knew that putting her down for another nap at five in the afternoon probably wasn’t the best idea if he wanted to get _any_ sleep _at all_ tonight, but, looking outside at the storm, the pelting rain and flashes of thunder and lightning, he wanted her to remain quiet for as long as possible, however that could be achieved, because there sure as hell wasn’t any way for them to get home, right now. They’d walked, Yuri having made the rookie mistake of forgetting to check the weather before setting out, and, though the house was only three blocks away, Yuri was absolutely _not_ bringing his six-week-old out into the cold and the wet to get there. And, if Irina fussed too much for them to stay at the bakery, he’d have to. So, yeah, consequences be damned, he wanted her to _sleep--_ and she needed seventeen hours of it a day, anyway, so a few hours at the wrong time couldn’t hurt _too much._

He hoped.

Thunder roared again and Irina squawked, clearly unhappy about the noise, but with Yuri’s proactive tummy-tickling, she calmed soon enough. And, Yuri was hugely relieved to find, Irina seemed to adjust to the periodic loud crashes, only twitching slightly when they occured, and apparently acclimating well to the gentle noise the storm outside provided.

Yuri’s luck seemed to run out, though, after almost an hour of the systematic calming of Irina and another slice of the strudel. The storm wasn’t letting up, and the baby seemed less keen on sleep than Yuri had originally hoped. Barely ten minutes after settling her for the second time in said hour, Irina’s little face scrunched up, steadily turning red as she began to wail.

Yuri was kind of tempted to curse, truth be told, and he shot a glance at the woman three tables down from him who was rolling her eyes, very obviously irritated by Yuri’s inability to calm and sustain the calm of his daughter. He hummed soothingly, though, and ran his hand up and down Irishka’s back, rocking awkwardly in his chair and not missing the glance Leo and Otabek, who had eventually given up and gotten Guang Hong to do the emailing while he covered for him at the counter, shared.

“What is it?” Yuri murmured in Irina’s ear, “are you hungry?” The bottle he offered was rejected, and he sighed, sniffing her diaper and knowing that that was not the issue. “Crying just to cry, then?” He guessed, and was met with a bleating sob, a little like a sheep’s; he huffed slightly. “I know, sometimes I want to cry, too,” he muttered into her ear, tugging her hat down again when his lips brushing against it had caused its shifting. “Just,” he looked hopelessly towards the window, a bit dim in the gloom. “Maybe not until we get home?”

His request was ignored, of course, though he didn’t miss the reproving glares leveled his way by several people in the shop, the mutterings of his inadequacy that filtered through the clientele. Harried, Yuri glanced around the bakery, hoping for a bit of privacy while he tended to his daughter without hostile eyes on him. There was the bathroom, but it was in occupation, and Yuri didn’t like the idea of bringing his tiny, vulnerable infant into a public restroom, to begin with. There was outside, which was out of the question. The kitchen, impossible. And the office, equally so. 

Biting back a sigh, Yuri gritted his teeth and stood, pacing the area around his table and oscillating vaguely as he moved, shooting increasingly desperate glances at the stormy skies, all the while.

After what felt like too long and several audible comments about how it would be nice if Yuri could manage to calm Irina down, Yuri looked up from his daughter to a hand on his shoulder. Otabek stood there, wincing slightly as Irina gave a particularly shrill shriek, her face now resembling a beet for coloring, and tilted his head towards the area where Yuri knew the kitchen to be.

“Do you want to take her back there, for a while?” Otabek asked, “It might help to get some space.” He gestured loosely to the haughty-looking young man currently sending a scorching glare into the back of Yuri’s neck.

Yuri nodded, taking up the diaper bag from the back of his chair and following Otabek through to the kitchen. It looked as one would expect a professional baker’s domain to, though Yuri couldn’t say that he paid too much attention to it, intent as he was to escape his onlookers. As he reached the other side of the room, though, as far away as he could get from the other customers, he felt his body relaxing. Yes, he was still drawn taut, tensed like a bowstring at his daughter’s continuous crying, but now he didn’t have to worry so much about being evicted on the grounds that he was causing a disturbance because of it.

“Sorry,” Otabek said, closing the door firmly and moving across to stand near Yuri, “I thought it would be easier if you got away from them, if only because you wouldn’t be getting glared at.”

“No, thank you,” Yuri replied, still working to soothe Irina in his arms. “I don’t want to kill your business-- I’d take her home, but it’s raining, and we walked.” He gestured with one elbow to the window behind him, out of which the grey skies and downpour could be seen.

Otabek hummed in reply, glancing at his watch. “Are you going to wait it out?”

“If I can,” Yuri shrugged, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face. It remained stubbornly there, but he wasn’t going to brush it aside with his hands full of agitated infant. 

Someone _did_ brush it aside, though, and Yuri blinked as Otabek quickly withdrew his hand, the recalcitrant blond lock now tucked safely behind Yuri’s ear.

“Um,” the silence stretched. “I’ve got to get back to the front, since I’m covering for Guang, but I’ll check in occasionally, okay?”

Yuri blinked, before nodding, and Otabek was gone. Well then.

***

The afternoon, or, probably more aptly called, evening progressed slowly from there, Yuri eventually succeeding in quieting his daughter to the point of disgruntled, distinctly menacing wails now and again, but not to sleep. Yuri would take it-- intermittent screaming was better than constant screaming, and certainly easier to subdue. Otabek, true to his word, poked his head into the kitchen every so often (every fifteen minutes; Yuri was keeping track with his phone), and, on Yuri’s request, grabbed him another slice of the strudel from the front. Apparently it was the last one, and, while Yuri _normally_ didn’t condone eating pure sugar for dinner, he was currently stuck in the kitchen of his friend-who-had-a-crush-on-him’s bakery waiting out a storm that was forecast to continue into the early hours of the morning-- he would allow himself this.

It wasn’t much later than seven (Yuri only noticed when his phone buzzed with an Instagram notification-- something or other the Angels had posted about Yuri’s replacement at the Ballet) when Otabek made his reliable trip to the kitchen, leaning against the counter across from where Yuri stood before the window and glancing through it to the flood warning in the making beyond.

Glancing up from the notification marring a rather excellent picture of Irina in a pumpkin onesie on his phone (apparently no one could dance en pointe like he could, but then, what else was new? They were several weeks into the off-season, you’d think they’d find something new to scream about) Yuri looked at Otabek. “It’s seven thirty,” he said, simply.

“Excellent observation.”

Eye roll. “You know what I mean, you idiot. It’s seven thirty and you close at seven.”

“I do,” Otabek nodded, “I thought I’d give you a little longer while I helped out with closing.”

“Oh,” Yuri hummed, “thanks. Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair, now-- looks like Irishka and I will be getting a taxi back, because the weather sure as he--ck isn’t cooperating.”

Otabek smirked at the self-censor. The smug bastard. “You’re getting a taxi?” He asked, “Don’t you live like five minutes away?”

He did-- Yuri had mentioned it a while back while he’d been complaining about the hassle of living near a street containing three restaurants, two activity-based businesses, four banks, and yet not one daycare. He still found it ridiculous, but he supposed that was life.

“Yeah, but there’s no way I’m going to let her get soaked on the walk home,” Yuri tilted his head in Irina’s direction, held against his shoulder and, by what she’d been doing five minutes ago, making googly eyes at the piece of red stained glass set against the window pane. “She’s barely six weeks old-- not an optimal time to catch pneumonia.”

“You mean you don’t want your very tiny baby to get a life-threatening illness? I’m amazed,” Otabek huffed, amused, “No. I meant that it’s stupid to pay for a taxi to take you less than a mile. Let me drive you, instead.”

“Don’t you have to clean up and stuff?”

“Delegation,” Otabek shrugged, “one of the perks of being the boss.”

Yuri considered a moment, “Are you sure? I can definitely call a cab.”

“If you’re as close as you say you are, it’ll take all of ten minutes,” Otabek said and Yuri nodded slightly.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Otabek hummed as he grabbed the diaper bag from where Yuri had set it down against the corner of the counter, then left the room to retrieve the stroller still sitting by Yuri’s table in the bakery.

“Ready?” Yuri mumbled to Irina, currently shielded from the water about to attack them under the flap of his coat, as he stood by the back door, Otabek beside him. In response, Irina blinked, but Yuri took that as a sign of affirmation. 

He and Otabek shared a solemn look, then a nod, and, as one, raced outside, Otabek braving the weather and unlocking Yuri’s door before his own, and then taking the time to carefully set the stroller in the trunk instead of just shoving it in as Yuri would’ve done. 

Safely inside the car, door closed and protected from the maelstrom of the outside world, Yuri opened his coat and inspected his daughter, pleased and relieved to find her dry but for the very edge of the blanket she was wrapped in. Yuri, on the other hand, was damp, probably staining the fabric car seat with water, and was very much regretting wearing his comfy sneakers, that day, their breathable quality lending itself to some thoroughly sodden socks. When Otabek hopped quickly into the driver’s seat, too, he looked in much the same condition, though worse as, from what Yuri could see, his normally perfectly coiffed undercut was dripping. 

“You two okay?” He asked, and Yuri nodded, transferring Irina into one arm to buckle the seatbelt. 

“If you turn at Lynn and make a right on Walnut, my street’s on the left,” Yuri replied, in lieu of answering verbally as Otabek started the car.

Otabek nodded, backing from his parking spot and navigating the vehicle through the streets easily, deftly moving onto the mentioned roads before Yuri could even think to remind him of them. They didn’t speak, given that the drive was so short, but, as Otabek turned onto his street, Yuri couldn’t help but roll his eyes as a very specific smell pervaded the air.

“Ugh,” Yuri groaned, far more dramatically than was strictly necessary as he shifted Irina in his arms so her now soiled diaper didn’t press against her body as much, “you little demon.”

Otabek glanced sideways at him, as though he couldn’t smell what Yuri was referring to, and laughed. “She has only done what all humans do, how does that make her a demon?”

“She came from me,” Yuri replied as Otabek, seeing him gesture out the window at the blue house they were near, pulled up to the driveway. “Demon by relation.”

Car now parked, Otabek turned to him as Yuri shifted to the left, in the process of disentangling his legs from the diaper bag at his feet. “You’re not a demon,” Otabek said, with all the conviction in the world, and suddenly Yuri realized how very close they were.

Apparently Otabek did, too, or maybe that was still Yuri; Yuri didn’t know, too preoccupied with the feeling of pillowy, soft lips on his to think too hard about who had made it happen. For a few, long moments they remained there, in a universe all their own as they kissed, until the silence, warm and peaceful, was broken.

“You taste like strudel,” Otabek mumbled, and Yuri chuckled against his lips.

“Is it good?”

“I made it,” Otabek replied, though, despite it being him who had spoken first, he seemed uninterested in prolonging the conversation. “Of course it’s good.” 

Irina let out a warning grumble, and, suddenly realizing that she was held awkwardly between them, they broke apart.

“I made her,” Yuri said wryly, once he’d adjusted Irina enough that she seemed content, the risk of kiss-induced smushing drastically reduced, “it seems that the concept doesn’t transfer.”

Otabek chuckled, looking down at the baby between them, though he sobered when he caught sight of Yuri’s changed expression. “What is it?”

Yuri sighed, flicking a piece of hair behind his ear with the hand not holding his daughter. “This… Otabek, you don’t want me. A relationship with me, I mean,” he clarified, when Otabek looked about to interject, “I come with too much baggage.”

Otabek frowned, “That isn’t a bad thing,” Yuri looked pointedly at the baby on his arm. “Neither is she,” Otabek continued, “she comes with you -- as does the baggage -- ” he added, his lips curling minutely, “it’s just part of the deal.”

Yuri didn’t like how easily Otabek was stating these things, didn’t like how easily _he_ was believing them. “I’m not going to be an easy lay,” he warned, “and certainly not spontaneous. She’ll always be more important.”

Otabek nodded obediently, “I know all that, Yuri-- frankly, I’d be concerned if she wasn’t.”

“I can’t do the ‘staying out all night’ thing, and this won’t exactly be a Hallmark movie in terms of romance-- I don’t have time for flowery gestures and sh--stuff.”

Otabek shrugged. “I’ve never been big on partying until dawn, and I can’t say I’m keen on showy displays of affection, either.”

Yuri huffed, caught in a state somewhere between annoyance at how flippant Otabek seemed about this, and exhilarated, because _did this mean he could date him?_ “Beka, this isn’t going to be a normal relationship. I hope you know that.” 

“You’re not like other guys,” Otabek agreed, though a smile was rapidly taking over his face, “I got it, I got it. I’ve known that since day one.”

Yuri laughed softly, shaking his head and accepting the kiss when it came. 

Rain beat down on the roof and windshield of the car, they were both wet, and the baby among them cooed in a way that clearly demanded attention, but, as far as Yuri was concerned, the moment was absolutely perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading! Comments and kudos make me _so_ very happy and any you can spare will be greatly appreciated. ♥
> 
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**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete! It's four parts with the prologue, and will be updated on Saturday, every Saturday. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, kudos and comments are thoroughly enjoyed! Leave some if you wish! ♥
> 
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